Shattered Pieces
by PoisonMistress
Summary: When John is approached with an offer of money, in exchange for his skills as a doctor, and the ability to keep his mouth shut, he agrees. But the broken man kept confined under the pretence of love catches his attention, and his heart. Sherlock/John. AU
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Characters are not my own.**

**Warnings: Lots of violence, Slash, Suicidal actions, Angst in unhealthy amounts, and more slash.**

* * *

The first time John saw him, he was walking calmly through the weapon room. His slim frame was wrapped up in a long coat, and his cold grey eyes pierced everybody and everything. John was sure he'd never seen him before. Nobody would forget those cheekbones in a while.

The man swept past him, bringing the looks of everybody working. Some saluted him, and some bowed. John just watched. And he was sure those cold grey eyes fixed on him for a second, before flitting away.

The look could have turned anybody to stone. John found it hard to believe somebody could have so little emotion in a look.

But there was something else hidden in those eyes. Sadness. Overwhelming, biting sadness. This man was not happy.

But then, not many people who worked for Moriarty were.

The second time he saw him, was around a week later. Again, it was just a brief moment. The slender beauty strode past him, eyes staying fixed straight ahead. His mouth was clenched, and his fists balled. He didn't speak, but he didn't need to. People parted before him, scurrying away as if fearful he would strike them. Or somebody else would.

By the door (if the huge metal slab, built to stop people getting in, and out could be called a door) the man turned, and gazed coolly across the room. Again John was struck by the hate in that gaze. Hate that was cold and dead, burnt down to something bitter and emotionless.

Then he typed in a code, and stepped out of the door.

John cautiously turned to a hit man named Jones. They were on amiable terms. Mainly because he had patched the man up more than once.

"Who was that?" he asked in a whisper.

Jones frowned.

"You don't know?"

John shook his head, glancing to the door where the man had disappeared.

"That is Mr. Holmes." he said, as if that was all he needed say.

"Who?"

Jones gave him an incredulous look, then leaned in and whispered into his ear.

"Moriarty's fiancé."

John's mouth almost dropped open, but he stopped it and risked another glance at the door Mr. Holmes had disappeared through. By the time he turned back to Jones, the assassin was half way across the room.

John had been with Moriarty for three months, which was in itself something of an achievement. He had just gotten back from the war, and he had been desperate. So when he was approached by a shady looking man, who offered him a good paying job, he accepted.

The conditions were simple. Keep your nose out of _everything_.

So he stuck to them. He knew he was working for a criminal. A madman if you wanted to put it that far. He knew the men he was sewing and bandaging up were assassins. Murderers. But he found himself unable to care.

It wasn't like he could do anything anyway. If he went to the police, an unfortunate accident would occur. John wasn't stupid.

So he continued to get paid huge amounts of money to keep his mouth shut.

The 'den' they all worked, and lived in, was a large warehouse. According to the sign outside, it was a paper factory. But inside there were dark and dangerous secrets hidden. Moriarty and any prisoners he had were situated on the second floor. His employees on the first, and the armoury, food hall and surgery on the ground. It worked out well, though only the few men who the criminal trusted slightly more than anybody else got to see him. The rest were captives, who almost definitely didn't want to see him.

And John found himself reasonably neutral. He had been unhappy before, now he was neither happy, or sad. Most of the assassins and other assorted outlaws were okay company. A few didn't want messing with. But John was one of the few who didn't kill for a living.

He had never seen Moriarty, but his reputation was naturally huge. Huge, and evil. So the fact that he had a lover made John really wonder.

The man with the sad eyes. Mr. Holmes.

He wasn't happy. So what was he doing?

And what sort of a man was he to agree to being Moriarty's fiancé?

That very evening, when most people had finished dinner and gone to bed, he headed up. John had been in the armoury cleaning his army pistol. A habit, which allowed him to think. He was walking along the sterile white corridor toward his room, when he heard steps behind him.

He spun round, wondering if it was intruders. It wasn't. It was two men holding another one. He recognised Moran on one arm, trying hold the victim down. The other looked vaguely familiar.

But the man that was thrashing in their arms was the one his eyes stayed on. It was Holmes.

_What the hell?_

From what he knew, Moriarty wouldn't take kindly to his fiancé being manhandled. Mr. Holmes spotted him before the other two did, and his eyes met John's calmly, a kind of panic in their depths. But his mouth stayed set and hard. It was obvious he had pride, and he wasn't going to stoop to talking to mere mortals.

John struggled with himself for a moment, then hurried toward them. A small smile twitched Holmes' face, but it froze on his face when Moran slipped a needle into his arm in the moment he was still.

"Mr. Moriarty is _very_ disappointed." Moran said harshly.

Holmes slumped, his eyes closing. John couldn't get those grey eyes out of his head. They made him wonder, made him sympathise.

"What's going on?" he asked.

Moran's head shot up, and Holmes slipped down until he was almost lying on the floor, limp and unmoving.

"Keep out of it Watson, Moriarty's orders." he said, frowning.

John hesitated a second longer than he should have, looking at the man, before turning and leaving. Guilt washed over him as he closed and locked his door. But there was nothing he could do. If he had put up any objection to Moriarty's orders, he would have been shot on the spot.

He stripped down to his boxers, and crawled into bed, Holmes haunting his mind.

John knew that prolonged thought on the grey eyed mystery would ultimately lead to death, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

It seemed obvious that the young man had gone away without permission, and wasn't that keen on returning. But if he were Moriarty's fiancé, why try and leave?

A quarrel, or something bigger?

John tried to push cold, grey eyes from his mind. The eyes told him more about Mr. Holmes than anything else.

* * *

**So... Chapter one. That was more of an introduction to give you an idea of what's happening. Next chapter will be Sherlock's view on things, though I doubt it will be any clearer :p Some reviews (critical or encouraging) would be lovely! I'm hoping to have the next chapter up over the weekend**


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock had had enough. So he did a rash thing. Leave.

Of course he knew Moriarty wouldn't let him go. Not that easily. He wouldn't even let death part them. He'd tried, but he had a limited range of weapons, and after the first overdose, Moriarty watched him like a hawk.

Some would say it was love.

Sherlock said it was spite.

To keep him sad, alone and defeated. A constant reminder of who had won. What better way to constantly remind him of that than refusing to let him die?

So he existed, not lived.

And he was beyond miserable. Moriarty, the ultimate adversary, had found the ultimate way to keep him downtrodden. The ultimate way to constantly remind of what had happened, and the mistake he had made.

Nobody knew where he was. Not even his brother. What he would have given to talk to Mycroft, he didn't know. But he would have given half the years of his life just to let his brother know he was alive. Because that would mean hope.

In the seven months he'd been Moriarty's fiancé, his feelings and emotions had been honed to a different level. On the one hand, he appreciated the friendship he had had with certain people, and even found himself missing them a _little._

On the other hand, he had become more distant. He had to be. He was empty of everything. Only a cold will for revenge keeping him going.

Apparently there was a difference between trying to kill yourself, and loosing the will to live.

So that day, after he had woken up in bed, Moriarty twined round him, he found the carefully built barriers which had kept him from breaking down, gone completely. He wished he had the strength to strangle the man beside him. But Sherlock didn't. Something kept him from closing his hands round Moriarty's neck, and squeezing all the life out of the being that disgusted him beyond words.

Perhaps it was because he knew that would be lowering himself to Moriarty's level.

Perhaps it was just weakness.

Either way, he scrambled out of bed, pulled him cloths on, and left.

He doubted he would get very far, but a small act of defiance would probably make him feel better.

So he walked calmly past all the thugs and idiots Moriarty hired, and walked straight out the door without any of them even questioning him.

_Perfect._

The fresh air made him reel. It felt glorious. He was actually out of that hell hole.

His first thought was Mycroft, but he didn't want to bring his brother into this. He was probably as happy as it was possible for that automaton to be. And it was dangerous. A few hours of freedom, and then he would be ready to continue the form of torture Moriarty had concocted.

What was probably the worst was the fact that he could never leave Moriarty. That was really why he couldn't kill him. He could never leave the life he so hated. Because Moriarty had the key. Virtual, of course. The key was a figment of his imagination, but it kept him chained. It was Moriarty that had created this fantasy key. And it was Moriarty who kept the threat it created hanging above him.

For the three hours he spent outside, he walked along roadsides, relishing the wind in his hair. The sound of cars. The sound of people who were innocent of despicable crimes.

Then a car pulled up, and a door opened and he knew his time was up. He silently stepped in, remembering with a sigh the days that Mycroft would do a very similar thing. Who would have thought eight months ago he would have become so sentimental?

The thugs in the car pressed a gun to his throat, though he knew they weren't loaded. Still, the cold metal against his Adam's apple was painful. None of them spoke. He believed the man holding the gun was called Moran, or by the set of his face, Moron. One of Moriarty's favourites. He must be annoyed.

Finally the car pulled up outside the 'paper' factory. He was pushed from the car and walked up to a small, very, very secure side door.

Moriarty wouldn't want the lower ranking men to know he was having troubles with his lover. He started thrashing, because he had little to live for, and causing trouble was all he could do. Moriarty hadn't broken him completely.

He struggled and struggled. Soundlessly. No point making a noisy fuss. Moran grunted a steady string of swearwords as he tried to keep him under control.

That was when he saw him. A short, blond haired man looking back at him, horror on his features. Sherlock watched him. He'd seen him before... When he was stretching his legs in the armoury. He didn't have quite the same look at the others.

This was proved as the man made his way over, mouth opened in complaint. Sherlock felt a needle plunge into his arm, and shuddered.

_Game over._

"Mr. Moriarty is very disappointed." Moran snarled.

Sherlock's eyes rolled back, feeling himself slipping away. He hoped, as he did every time, that he had been given a fatal dose.

"What's going on?"

A kind voice. Not the sort of voice you expected to get here.

"Keep out of it Watson, Moriarty's orders." Moran replied, in a slightly distant voice.

That voice... It was nice. He liked it.

Watson? He'd never heard of him before.

* * *

He woke on the hatefully familiar mattress which belonged to Moriarty. His throat was dry and cracked. He didn't bother opening in his eyes. He knew Moriarty was there.

"Oh Sherry. Why do you do this to me?" Moriarty's singsong voice came from above.

Sherlock flinched as somebody kissed his cheek, and knowing Moriarty knew he was awake, opened his eyes and watched Moriarty stonily.

"Feeling any better, ducky?" Moriarty asked, ruffling his hair.

He was handed a glass of water, which he reluctantly drained.

"Moran told me you got a little feisty. Perhaps you've forgotten why you're here?"

Sherlock knew no answer was required. It was how conversations went. He couldn't even really remember the last he spoke more than two sentences. What was the point?

"But I do love it why you show a bit of fight! I was worried I'd beaten it all out." Moriarty's cold hands were tracing the scars on his chest now, brushing the light shirt away as he did so.

Sherlock shivered, closing his eyes to hide his repulsion, and the fear those scars brought up.

"Maybe we should do a little more, hmm? I know you enjoy it so, and I'll indulge you."

Sherlock caught the 'please don't' before it was uttered. He snapped his mouth closed. Moriarty wouldn't have the victory of hearing him beg. However awful what was about to happen would be, at least his pride could remain intact.

That was all he had left.

"Am I getting the silent treatment, Sherry?"

He let Moriarty roll him onto his stomach, tensing as his shirt was pulled from his back.

"You'll be screaming soon enough."

The first strike was light, but he knew it was only a start of what was to come. He knew by the end his back would be covered in welts and blood. All he could hope was he would pass out before Moriarty began to use all his strength in the beating.

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**Right then... I know that wasn't particularly graphic, but I'm still considering lifting this to M just to be sure. Now, the mystery of exactly what's happening will remain veiled for a while, but keep your eyes open for clues! ****I'm soso grateful for all your lovely reviews! They really encouraged me (= More would be epic.**


	3. Chapter 3

John always had to wake up early. His 'surgery' opened at eight, and from then until lunch there was sure to be a steady of stream of people coming in, all nursing different injuries. He'd treated snakebites, bullet wounds, broken bones and even the odd person nursing a thorn in their foot.

He always tried to forget who these men were, and how they'd obtained their injuries. It was scarily easy.

He had an hour for lunch, and then would work all the way until five, though there was often long gaps between patients.

Moriarty had more than one doctor, and he wasn't the main. He didn't get to treat prisoners.

He had just let the last grateful patient out before lunch, and was getting ready to head down to the canteen, when there was a soft, quiet knock on the door.

It was hesitant, not like the door breaking knocks of assassins. He scowled and looked at his watch, before opening the door. He was in for a shock.

It was Mr. Holmes.

He didn't look good. His posture immediately told John he'd suffered a nasty accident, and his cold grey eyes were tinged with pain.

He surveyed John quietly, accepting the invitation and stepping into the room.

"Er, sit on the table." John said, watching Holmes wince as he did so.

It was the first time he'd seen Holmes close up, and he could truly appreciate his face structure. It was aristocratic and carefully sculpted. His eyes were framed by high cheek bones, and his lips were pale and lush.

"What's the problem?" he asked, trying to keep a professional demeanour.

Holmes didn't answer, instead he carefully removed his shirt, and tossed the bloody garment to the floor.

John had to suppress a gasp as he examined the mutilated back he was presented with. Some of the welts were dangerously deep, and the bruising looked appalling.

"How did this happen?" he asked.

"With a whip." Holmes replied coolly, his voice strained.

They both knew this wasn't what John meant, but the doctor didn't rephrase his question. If the mysterious man didn't want to go into details, he shouldn't complain.

All the same, he worked out what had happened pretty quickly.

Holmes had been forced back into the den. He had left without permission. It seemed obvious that Moriarty had a hand in his punishment.

He grabbed a bottle, and some bandages, and headed back to his patient.

"Lie down please." he said, taking another and trying to decide whether stitches would be needed.

A good forty five minutes later, he'd just about finished. Mr. Holmes had been silent the whole way through, not even flinching when he stitched up the worst wounds. He gave him something for the pain, bandaged up his back as best he could, and told him come back the next day.

Holmes hobbled to the door, turning to give John a thankful look.

"Thank you." he said, in the same cool, detached voice as before.

"No problem, Mr. Holmes." John answered, giving a cautious smile.

There was a small hesitation.

"It's Sherlock." he said quietly, a very small answering stretching his lips as he uttered the name.

It was a smile that spoke of a time when the name meant something to him.

"Sherlock then." John said, watching as Sherlock shuffled from the room, somehow still looking graceful.

* * *

He had to eat quickly, as most of his lunch had been spent with Sherlock. It did of course raise some questions. Normally he was in the food hall from the moment his break started, to the second it ended. Not that he particularity liked the food. It was just the room was a dining room crossed with a common room.

It was really surprising how homely Moriarty's den could be.

He liked to sit in his favourite chair, and listen to the chatter. It was terrifyingly normal. Men talked of their wives and children. Where they planned to go on holiday. That kind of thing.

The more sinister ones, Moran included, would never bother with the common room.

"Where were you John?" the inevitable question finally came.

"Hmm?" he replied, checking his watch.

Five minutes.

"You were away most of lunch." Kevin persisted.

Kevin. Not really the name you would suspect a top hit man to have. But Kevin had numberless kills to his name.

"Reading." John lied easily.

Somehow, he thought it best to keep quiet.

_Sherlock..._ A queer name for a queer man. But he found himself more and more interested by the man who was called Moriarty's fiancé. His silence had almost told John as much as his talking could have.

Something had gone horribly wrong in this man's life. And it didn't seem like Moriarty was trying to put him back together. On the contrary, it seemed Moriarty was the cause of things.

But why would Sherlock stay around if he was unhappy?

You just had to look into his eyes to see his was intelligent. Even if that intelligence was deadened and asleep, it was there, shining from his melancholy eyes. So surely he could escape?

But he hadn't, which must mean there was some love between them. However unlikely that seemed, it had to be the truth.

But what tragedy had occurred to give Sherlock those haunted eyes?

John headed back to his surgery, attempting to shove all thoughts of Sherlock from his mind. As had been made clear on his employment, it wasn't his business to pry. Certainly not into the the boss's private life, however intriguing it was.

He treated all the patients a little absently, finally taking the lift to the first floor. He was certainty _not_ looking forward to seeing Sherlock the next day, but he was just as certainly... interested to see him again.

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**Wow! So many lovely reviews. Thank you everybody! I'm sorry for the delay, and the length :/ But I've been busy. Next chapter should be up in a few days, and we will see Moriarty. Review? Pretty please (=**

**Review replies are going up on my tumblr. poisonmistress(.)tumblr(.)com  
**


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock curled on his bed, screwing his eyes shut, and letting pain flood him. He didn't mind it that much. And it wasn't so bad now that he'd been patched up a little.

The stitches itched already, and the bandages rubbed painfully against some grazes. But he just took it. It had been early morning when he woke up, and crawled into his room, rocking on his bed, clutching his knees to his chin, keeping his eyes closed so he could focus on the pain.

It had been midday before he'd broken down, and eased himself painfully down to John Watson's surgery.

The glance he'd had the day before told him John was a doctor, and compared to the last doctor, he looked nice. But then, he didn't have any good memories associated with the last doctor. But something about John had caught his attention.

It had been the kindness. Something he'd been starved of all his life.

There had been exceptions, naturally. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. Molly.

But he only appreciated them now. He'd come to realise that the time before Moriarty had been the happiest of his life, and he hadn't even realised it.

He discovered John's first name when he was sitting on the table.

And Sherlock hadn't found the whole process too bad. It was painful, but John was very careful, talking in a calm, gentle voice. His words didn't actually get through to Sherlock, only his voice. He'd already decided he liked the voice.

Sherlock had also spent his time deducing. An art which had lain buried for a long time. John however, was an interesting subject, and he found himself taking careful note of everything he saw.

He was immensely grateful that John hadn't asked anything. Past the first question, he had made no comment. But it was obvious in the depths of his warm blue eyes that he was troubled.

Sherlock sighed quietly, and slowly let sleep take him. Sleep, something he had once despised, now allowed him to dream of a happier place.

_The darkest hour is before the dawn._ He told himself for the millionth time. The words had lost their meaning long ago, but he still hoped... Maybe, maybe, one day he would be free again.

_That will never happen,_ said Moriarty's voice.

* * *

Sherlock woke early, letting himself sniff in his own scent, his breathing muffled by the pillow.

His back was twinging, but not unbearably.

He carefully eased himself into a sitting position, and glanced at his watch. It was early morning. He wouldn't be going to John until midday. Moriarty probably knew he'd been, but nobody else needed to.

For the first few hours, he lay on his stomach staring out the window. He'd learnt to let the hours fly by. One moment it would be eight, then next ten. It was an advantage he'd gained a long time ago.

He was finally disturbed by a knock on his door. He recognised the knock, so remained still, waiting for Moriarty to enter the room.

"Sherry?"

God, how he _hated_ that nickname. But it was better than his real name coming from Moriarty's lips.

Moriarty plonked himself on the bed, fondly petting Sherlock's head. It took all his pride not to flinch away.

"Feeling any better darling?" Moriarty asked, though there was no trace on concern in his voice.

Any form on endearment coming from Moriarty was almost intolerable.

"Yes." he replied shortly, continuing to stare out the window.

"I saw you went to Doctor Watson."

Sherlock waited for the completion of the sentence, a little nervously. He didn't want any harm coming to John.

"Are you satisfied with his treatment?"

"Yes." he said emotionlessly.

Moriarty ruffled his hair again. All he was to the man was a pet. Sherlock wished that he would grow bored and kill him. But they both got a constant reminder from the situation. Sherlock, of defeat, and Moriarty of victory. Something he liked to be reminded of.

And of course, his pride, which remained strong and intact kept him from submitting to Moriarty. Something which kept interest fixed on him.

"I was thinking maybe you'd like a little trip out, Sherry. After Wednesday's little excursion, it seems you're growing bored, though I can't imagine why. But, any good fiancé would treat his future husband to a little outing, hmm?"

_Fiancé._ The crowning hateful word. It suggested love. Romance. Attachment. Trust. The term had come to mean the exact opposite of those things to Sherlock.

Moriarty's grip tightened on his hair, and he yanked it slightly.

"Well?"

"Alright." Sherlock replied grudgingly.

There a chance. A slim chance that maybe something in Moriarty's calculations would fail, and Mycroft would come to learn of his imprisonment.

"I'll get it arranged then, Sherry." Moriarty cooed, resuming his petting.

He finally left, leaving Sherlock to his miserable and angry thoughts again.

Time flew, until finally Sherlock left to meet John again. He was almost looking forward to it. A feeling that he thought long since dead.

In his opinion, the only thing that wasn't dead was his body.

He carefully knocked on the door, hearing the shuffling of fabric from inside. The door swung open, and John smiled shyly at him. It was a friendly smile. Another thing Sherlock liked.

"I was just beginning to think you weren't coming." said John ushering him in, and patting the table.

Sherlock twitched his lips in response, and lifted himself onto the table.

"Shirt off, please."

John spent the next fifteen minutes carefully undoing the bandages and examining the whip lashes.

"They're a lot better." he said finally.

Sherlock didn't reply. He hadn't spoken a word once, despite John talking to him. Neither expected an answer to come to Sherlock's lips.

John bandaged up his back again with infinite care, finally handed his shirt back over and giving that shy smile.

"All done."

Sherlock nodded and slipped on the table, easing his shirt on and crossing to the door.

"Sherlock."

He stopped and turned to look at John.

"If you ever... want to, talk about things, just say, yeah?"

Sherlock tried to see if he was just offering to be polite, but he could see no lies in John's warm blue eyes. He could only see the kind of pity he didn't despise. Well, maybe he did once. But now, everything was different.

"Thank you." he said, and he meant it.

"Just remember, I'm happy to listen." John said.

Sherlock nodded jerkily, and left.

* * *

**I hope that was alright! Hopefully Moriarty's okay (= Next chapter (sometime after the weekend) John will think *nods* I'm so grateful for all the brilliant reviews, so if you could spare a second, that would be amazing!**

**Replies to Chapter three -****poisonmistress(.)tumblr(.)com**


	5. Chapter 5

John didn't see Sherlock Holmes for nine days.

And despite being busy during two hundred and forty hours, Sherlock clouded his mind, his thoughts constantly straying to the man who had entangled his mind. Sherlock had spoken seven words. Only seven words. And yet he couldn't stop thinking of the mysterious individual.

Perhaps it was the mystery that kept his mind fixed on Sherlock. But John didn't think so.

There was plenty of mystery, sure. It enfolded the slim, delicate frame. Covered the true personalty from view. Maybe Sherlock wanted to keep it that way.

But there was something else. Something other than curiosity drawing his mind to Sherlock.

It wasn't quite pity. He felt sorry for the man. Who wouldn't after seeing those whip gashes?

It was a mix really... A mix of curiosity and the wish to help. Why was Sherlock still around? What did Moriarty mean to him? And what awful event had given his eyes that look?

He had only offered to listen, because he truly wanted to. It wasn't the curiosity that had made him offer.

And maybe, one day, he would learn more about the man he was currently obsessed with.

Of course, his physical attraction was another layer to John's interest, though Sherlock didn't seem like the kind to like romance. And Moriarty didn't seem like the kind to share. He himself didn't like the idea of causing somebody to cheat.

But the thing he found most attractive was Sherlock's eyes. Not because of their beauty. But because of the story they told.

John could have talked about those eyes for hours. Because they fascinated him. And he longed to find out what would bring the life back into them. What had taken the life from them? Why the hate and anger with everything about life gleamed, and exactly how much intelligence shone. Those eyes were dead of emotion, but sparkling with it too.

A seemingly impossible feat, but Sherlock managed it.

John was sitting cross-legged on his chair, looking through files when another knock echoed round his large, white room. It had been six days since Sherlock returned, and this knock was certainly not his.

"Come in!" he called, placing the neatly stacked files back on his desk.

It was Kevin that entered, a shamefaced smile on his lips.

"Hey." he said with a shrug of his shoulders.

John let him sit down on the table, and then spun his chair to face him.

"What is this time?" he asked, pursing his lips to bite back a smile.

Kevin winced, rolled his sleeve up, and held out the appendage. A long knife slash wound its jagged way up his arm, blood leeching from it.

John shook his head, wincing in sympathy. He was half tempted to ask how it had happened, but he didn't want to know. Kevin was a friendly individual. He had only entered the assassins business to save his family from poverty.

John could hardly judge. It would be hypocritical.

He cleaned the wound out, and bandaged it up, working in a comfortable silence. He was just finishing up, when he decided to pose the question he wouldn't ask any other man. The question he couldn't ask any other person.

"Kevin, what do you know about Sherlock Holmes?" he asked softly.

Kevin started, shooting John a glance and pursing his lips.

"A bit." he replied cautiously.

John tied the bandage off, and sat back.

"Anything you can tell me?"

Kevin hesitated, finally nodding.

"Just don't tell anybody."

John nodded, excitement buzzing in his finger tips.

"I don't know how he met the boss. But I do know when he first arrived, he was very different to what he is now. He was wild, if you get me. He didn't give in. I can remember when he ov- Well, I- I shouldn't tell you about that. But he was constant trouble, only Moriarty could control him.

"I don't know what the arrangement between them was, but I don't think it was love. It was something... Stronger almost. But not as nice. It's nasty and scary, but it kept them together. Holmes ran away several times, but we were always ordered to get him back. And he'd come without complaint.

"But that didn't last long. He started going silent. He used to talk. He could tell you life's history by just looking at you. But he stopped. He would just creep around, silent, with those awful eyes of his. Like he could see your darkest secret. And then just before you arrived, he pretty much stopped coming out altogether. Sometimes, once a week or so, he would, but only to walk round a bit, and then leave.

"Moriarty still seems... Obsessed with him, but I can't see how long it will last. I would never have thought Moriarty would get himself a fiancé, or that it would be person like Mr. Holmes." Kevin concluded.

John processed the information, finding himself not that much better off than he had been before. Really, all Kevin had told him was that Sherlock had been growing steadily unhappier.

"Thanks." he said, turning away to put the bandages away.

"Why do you want to know?" Kevin asked, standing.

"Just he came in here the other day, and I wanted to know." John replied with a shrug.

Kevin nodded, and after paying his thanks, left, leaving John to think.

It was four days later that Sherlock appeared. He hadn't seen so much as a glimpse of the young man since he had made his offer, and he was afraid Sherlock would never take him up on it. Of course Sherlock appeared just when he was almost sure he would never get to learn more about the man.

He was preparing to leave his surgery for the night, and head off to the dinner hall, when a tentative knock he had been longing for sounded. He leapt to the door, and opened it, meeting the calm grey eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

Calm, with a hint of _absolute_ panic.

"I'm taking you up on your offer." he said, voice worn.

"Come in." John said, eagerly inviting him in.

Sherlock glanced round the room, obviously looking for something. He gave a nod of satisfaction, and climbed gracefully onto the table, sitting cross legged, waiting for John to seat himself. When he did so, Sherlock licked his lips nervously and brought his hands together.

"I hope you don't mind." he said.

"Of course not. I just want to help." John replied sincerely.

Sherlock anxiously wetted his perfect lips again, swallowing.

"Just talk to me." he asked softly.

* * *

**There! Now I realise that end bit it probably OOC, but until John gets closer to Sherlock, he's going to remain a little off. Next chapter, we will find out what upset Sherlock, which happens to be the same as Moriarty's promise. Reviews = quicker update :p (and that's not blackmail!)**

**poisonmistress(.)tumblr(.)com for review replies and updates.**


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock had begun to think that Moriarty had forgotten about his promise. He'd been hoping in fact. But of course, whenever he hoped, the exact opposite happened.

So nine days after the 'outing' was promised, Sherlock found himself summoned to Moriarty's quarters. He reluctantly trailed behind Moran.

'Seb' Moran was probably the only person in the whole establishment that actually knew the truth behind Moriarty's fiancé.

The only person who worked for Moriarty and knew exactly who he had been, and what he was stilll capable of.

Moran knocked smartly on Moriarty's door, sneering at Sherlock, and walking briskly away. Sherlock drew a sharp breath, drew himself up, and strode into the room.

Moriarty was lounging on a sofa, evil grin splashed across his hateful features.

"Good morning, my sweet." he said, pointing at the space beside him.

Stiffly, Sherlock walked across the room and sat beside him, pressed as closely against the arm as possible.

"You remember I promised to take you out on a little outing? Well, I've got it all arranged. It'll be perfectly fun." he said, sitting up and patting Sherlock's knee.

"Delightful." Sherlock sneered.

That earned him a slight slap to the thigh.

"Now that's not the attitude, dear. I thought you'd be pleased we were going to spend some quality time together. I've got a lovely little schedule planned, and I'm sure you won't have anything to complain of."

Sherlock didn't reply this time. His moment of sarcasm had faded in the prospect of what kind of horror Moriarty had planned.

"But, I have a little condition dearest."

"What?" Sherlock snarled.

"If you misbehave... I think I'll have to bring old threats into action. Understand?"

Sherlock hoped he didn't pale.

"Yes." he said.

"Good!" Moriarty clapped his hands together.

Sherlock shivered and bit back a flinch as Moriarty's hands coiled round his, and their lips met in a hard, ugly kiss.

He had never been kissed, until Moriarty, so he had nothing to compare it with, but he knew a proper kiss wouldn't make him want to retch. But Moriarty had no regard for anybody but himself.

He shoved his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, wriggling closer and groaning lightly.

Sherlock barely responded. Just enough to keep Moriarty happy. Thankfully Moriarty often skipped kissing, and got straight down to the fucking.

Sherlock didn't known which he hated more.

His only consolation that such torture didn't occur often, as Moriarty was too busy organising despicable crimes.

Once Moriarty seemed satisfied, he pulled Sherlock to his feet, keeping a firm grip on his hand. His cold, clammy fingers linked with Sherlock's.

He was towed down the corridor and into a lift. Moriarty keeping him close, using his arm like a leash.

When the lift stopped, Moriarty leaned up again, his lips just brushing against Sherlock's.

"Remember what I said, Sherry. One false move, and..."

Sherlock nodded curtly, pulling away from Moriarty, disgust in his eyes.

They stepped out of the lift, through the back door Moriarty seemed to prefer taking Sherlock through, and into a waiting car.

Of course it was blacked out. Moriarty would be taking as few risks as possible. But what Sherlock couldn't understand was why he was taking the risk at all. There was every chance he would be seen. And if that happened, the game was back on.

The game... Once longed for, now, too late, he knew better.

Moriarty must have something truly awful in store. Something to crush Sherlock even more. Maybe completely.

He didn't bother watching the scenery flash by. He knew where he was being imprisoned, and he was fairly sure where they were going.

An hour or so later, they pulled up on a street, and Moriarty jumped out onto the pavement. Bracing himself, Sherlock followed, surveying the busy street.

He breathed in smells which used to be familiar, but were now treasured memories. The car glided away, leaving he and Moriarty - along with Moran who was at a discreet distance - alone, people bustling round them.

_Why can't they see? Why can't they think?_Sherlock wondered, as somebody brushed past him.

If somehow, there had been a reversal in roles, he would have realised immediately that that the person he was bumping into was a captive.

But to anybody else, they just looked like two men standing on the street.

"Shall we go, dearest?" Moriarty inquired, a sneer behind the words.

Sherlock sneered right back at him, uncaring if it resulted in a punishment. His arm was trapped in Moriarty's, and he was towed away.

So close to freedom, and yet so far.

The first stop was a café, for some refreshments. They sat outside in the feeble sunshine, Moriarty slurping down a milkshake, and Sherlock ignoring the coffee he had been bought.

That was only the start of things. Next they went to see a truly awful movie. The hard seats made Sherlock squirm, but not as much as Moriarty's presence beside him.

Then they just wondered aimlessly around, Moriarty hanging onto his arm. Of course, it appeared aimlessly to a normal person, but Sherlock it was part of Moriarty's scheme to remind him of life seven months ago.

Lunch was next, a one-sidedly silent affair which drew the glances of bemused waiters. Moriarty talked, Sherlock only gave a single word when it was absolutely necessary.

Three more activities followed, none of them pleasant, but none of them truly awful.

And just when he was hoping it was over, Moriarty surprised him with the worst.

They climbed into the car, a smirk fixed on Moriarty's face.

"I've got one little treat left, Sherry. The best, I think you'll agree."

Sherlock didn't reply, but with increasing foreboding tried to guess what it was.

They finally pulled up on a street, and Moriarty hauled him out, a giggle of excitement slipping from his lips.

Sherlock first saw the crowd, not many people, but just enough to be called a crowd.

Moriarty tugged him over, keeping the tight grip on his arm. Moran was closer than he had been all day, obviously ready in case Sherlock made a break for it.

Looking over the head's of the crowd, Sherlock immediately knew what he was looking at.

A crime scene.

He spun to face Moriarty.

"No." he said sharply, breathlessly.

He didn't want to be reminded.

"Yes, Sherry. Or, bang."

Closing his eyes, Sherlock turned back to the crime scene.

Of course he spotted him immediately. Right in the middle, ordering officers about.

Lestrade.

His heart wrenched at the sight of a man he had recently considered a friend. Lestrade looked happy. He'd patched things up with his wife. He was solving cases well, and there might well be a promotion on the way.

Sherlock was simply glad his 'death' had done nothing to affect Lestrade career. Something he would never have thought until recently.

He could see Sally Donovan through the crowd too, though he didn't look upon her quite so fondly.

He closed his eyes, half wishing that Lestrade would look up and see him. Realise that he was not dead, but very much alive and in need of help. Then maybe he would tell Mycroft and...

But if Lestrade did realise he was there, he would be on the floor with a bullet in the brains.

"I arranged the murder especially." Moriarty whispered into his ear.

Sherlock continued to follow Lestrade movement's with his eyes, knowing that every moment he spent would inevitably break him down a little more.

A hundred reproaches and regrets were rising back to the surface. The _if only's_ and _why's_ he had only recently pushed away.

It took all his nerve not to call out.

So he just watched, silent, his walls breaking down again.

He could never go back to the life he had. He could never solve crimes again.

But at least his folly hadn't affected Lestrade.

Five minutes of torture later, Sally was told to move the crowd, and Moriarty pulled him away.

The brief thought of struggling did enter his mind, but Sherlock allowed himself to be dragged off, keeping his eyes fixed on what he could see past the crowd.

Once he was encased in the car, Moriarty watched him closely, looking for any cracks.

"I'm sorry I couldn't arrange for you to see the rest of your heart, but it was a little trickier."

"I don't have a heart." Sherlock spat.

"Maybe. But it wasn't as cold as you thought, hmm?"

Sherlock gave a snarl, turning away from the man he hated more than anything.

Neither of them spoke on the way back. Not much of a change for Sherlock, but for once even Moriarty kept quiet, watching Sherlock closely.

He was waiting for the effects to seep through.

Once they got back to Moriarty's den, Sherlock was escorted back to his room, and the door was closed sharply behind him. He knew Moriarty would be watching him via a camera 'hidden' in a bookshelf, but he didn't care. He just slumped on the bed, ignoring the lingering pain the sudden impact on his back flared.

He had never cried in the seven months. He hadn't cried full stop (properly) since he was six. But he was as close as he had been six months ago, when he overdosed for the first time.

When the weak impulse to cry hit him, he would brush it away with angry thoughts. He would sit still, and curse Moriarty with every antagonistic word in his vocabulary. Then he would curl up and go to sleep, waking up ready for the next day.

Today he wasn't sure if it would work.

Hate wasn't enough to keep him going. He needed something very, very different.

So he slowly rose, shooting the camera a defiant look, and stalking from the room. He knew exactly where he was going. Exactly what he needed, desperately needed. He needed a few moments of freedom, a moment of distraction.

And the only way that could happen was if somebody offered him the smallest chunk of friendship.

Even it was all a pretence, he didn't care. He needed to be with somebody. Somebody he didn't want to kill in a thousand different a painful ways.

He had spent many hours planning what he could do to Moriarty.

Finally he cautiously knocking on John's surgery door, hoping he hadn't retired to his room.

The door was wrenched open moments, and John stood there smiling at him.

It almost made him burst into tears. Because for the first time, there was somebody who would let him lean on their shoulder if he did cry.

* * *

**I am so sorry for the wait! Hopefully that longish chapter made up for it. As always, I'm sorry if Sherlock's massively OOC, and very soon, I'll be working on fixing him! Review?**

**Also, a quick note. The next chapter will contain some stuff of suicide, so if you don't feel like an angst overload, you might want to stop reading. I also can't be sure when I post the next chpt, but it might be a few weeks.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Warning - Suicide Attempt**

* * *

John had to admit he panicked a little when Sherlock practically begged him to talk.

_What can I talk about?_

"Tell me... about the war." Sherlock said, brining his knees to his chin, and watching John with those cold eyes.

He had an unguarded look on his face. And John could see the years of experience slipping away, showing him Sherlock's actual age.

It was frighteningly young compared to what Sherlock had seen and been through.

"The... war?" he repeated.

He remembered what Kevin had said. How Sherlock could tell you everything with a single glance.

"Yes." Sherlock said, his unflinching eyes never leaving John's.

John had never talked to anybody about the war. Not his sister. Not his therapist. Nobody.

But as Sherlock's eyes pleaded with him, he found himself opening his mouth, and talking.

He told Sherlock how he ended up in Afghanistan. What happened there. Why he was sent back. Then he talked about Harry and his parents.

He saw them all on his day off. He got only one day off, a Sunday, but he made the most of it. It had always been something to look forward too. But they never talked about his bullet in the shoulder, or the slight limp in his leg.

All the while, Sherlock listened, closing his eyes. John wondered if he'd fallen asleep, but every time he faltered, the grey eyes flashed open, and he watched John expectantly.

It was a good hour later that Sherlock uncurled himself like a cat, and gave a hesitant smile.

"Thank you." he said in that quiet, harmonious, and yet at the same time broken voice.

"It's okay. Are you... alright?"

Sherlock flinched as if struck, the cloud falling back over his eyes.

"No." he replied, a small, bitter smile accompanying the words.

John opened his mouth, but Sherlock all but ran from the room, whispering his thanks again.

* * *

The next day was fairly hectic. Because his thoughts wouldn't leave Sherlock, he didn't fall asleep until late. He woke late too, which made his whole morning rushed. He just took it one patient at a time, managing to temporarily obliterate the bewitching man from his mind.

He had the sneaking suspicion he was ever so slightly besotted.

He'd just splinted a broken arm, which was probably the most serious injury of the day, and was just thinking about leaving when the careful knock on the door he had been hoping against hope he would hear sounded.

He let a smile light up his features, before carefully wiping it and stepping over to the door and opening.

Sherlock stood, no smile on his face today. Just a small amount of warmth in his grey eyes.

He silently let him in, and Sherlock curled himself on the table, closing his eyes and just taking deep, almost contented breaths.

"What can I do for you?" John asked, though he suspected the answer.

"Talk." Sherlock said, and they settled down for another hour of one sided conversation.

When Sherlock stood, John posed the question that had been on his mind all day.

"Sherlock... Would you like to... talk about anything? About life... before here?" he asked, aware it was a touch untactful, but he wasn't a therapist.

Sherlock gave a single shake of his head.

"No. I like your voice better." he said, leaving John stunned and intrigued.

However curious he was to know more about Sherlock, he realised that some things were best kept in a dark corner of the heart. Obviously anything to do with himself was painful for Sherlock, though it was hard to imagine exactly what had broken the man quite so much.

It was only on rare occasions that the cracks of pain showed. The rest of the time, Sherlock was silent and strong, covered and protected by a veil of mystery.

On the third day, Sherlock didn't turn up. John tried not to let it bother him, but he had to admit he liked the man's company, however quiet it was. And he was worried that he had scared Sherlock away by offering to listen.

On top of that, the next day was a Sunday, and he wouldn't be around. John lay in bed thinking, wondering.

He wished he had stopped himself becoming so obsessed so quickly. But that irresistible force was drawing him closer to Sherlock. Tying him there, making it impossible to leave. And with every question that was answered, two more sprung up to keep the pale man hidden.

He knew he should just let it lie. Let Sherlock continue along with his sad lonely life, but that didn't seem like the right thing to do. And although it probably meant breaking the promise he'd made, he decided to help Sherlock in any way he could.

Then again, he'd already decided that anyway, and there was no way he could stop himself. Sherlock, his startling and enchanting eyes, and his broken demeanour had caught and held John's attention.

The next morning he left reluctantly. Normally this was his time to get away from the guilt of treating and saving killers. Now he wished he was sitting in his surgery, waiting and hoping for a knock.

But there were several things he had to do, apart from seeing Harry and his parents. Naturally he had a lot of free time, and the the thousand page epic he normally carried around was nearing the end, and he needed a replacement. Otherwise he faced extreme boredom in the gaps between patients.

He did have a laptop, but internet access was very, very limited, so it was hardly worth the trouble.

The day passed as slowly as he had expected. Harry talked about her new girlfriend, hardly noticing his distraction. His parents were away for the weekend, so he didn't get to seem them either. After a morning with Harry, and finally discovering she'd been off the drink for three weeks, he left and just sat in a little café, finishing of his book.

Nobody in the 'real' world knew of his job. He didn't have anybody he could really confide in. No girlfriend or wife. Harry would blab the moment she got drunk, and his parents would probably have heart attacks.

That was something he liked about Sherlock. He knew the real John Watson. And although it really should be Sherlock, not John talking, it was nice to have somebody listening. Never speaking, interrupting or contradicting. To look at his haughty, cold face, it would be supposed he didn't listen. But Sherlock Holmes listened. And John found himself opening up, telling him all the things he would never tell anybody else.

Maybe that was because Sherlock couldn't judge him. He worked for a criminal mastermind, and Sherlock was engaged to the same one. They were in the same boat of guilt.

Not that it seemed Sherlock was there by his own will. Or at least, he had decided to do it for some reason, and wasn't happy.

John did try thinking of other things that day. It was slightly worrying by this point. But he had nothing else to indulge his thoughts on. Harry made him feel bad. The men and women assassins he treated made him feel like an outlaw. His job full stop made him feel like he was evil. Sherlock was almost a break from the things that were pressing down on him.

He bought himself a book, and headed back to what could almost be called his home (however much it disgusted him) early.

As always on an evening, the armoury was empty, and John headed to his surgery to grab his laptop, before retiring.

Only when he stepped into the room did he realise Sherlock was in there too, examining a needle and bottle he had somehow 'found' in John's locked box of slightly more dangerous medicines.

He recognised the bottle immediately, and stepped over, snatching it from Sherlock's spidery hands before the man could react.

"What are you doing with that?" he asked a little roughly.

Morphine was not something to play around with.

Sherlock's cool eyes settled on his, and then strayed to the bottle with a look of longing.

"Just let me have it, John." he said, velvet tones not the least changed by the act he wanted to do.

"Why?" John asked, knowing there could only really be one answer.

"I need to be free. I'll make sure you don't get the blame." came the painfully cold reply.

"How will you ensure that if you're dead?" John spat angrily.

Sherlock's look didn't flinch.

"Please." he said, though the tone was more that of an order.

"No, Sherlock. Want to know why?" John said coolly, placing the bottle in his pocket.

Sherlock gave a snarl, his face momentarily loosing its dead look, and showing all the emotions there. Blazing, desperate emotions.

"Because there's still hope for you. You can still be free without... without using the cowards way out."

"You can't understand." Sherlock breathed, storming from the room.

John sighed heavily, drawing the deadly bottle out and staring at it. Without a moment's hesitation he hurled it at the wall, feeling slightly satisfied at the glass shattered, and the liquid leaked down onto the floor like the worthless muck it was.

* * *

**Well... I'm sorry that was probably depressing as hell, but this is rock bottom, and things will start to improve, I hope :p I'll really try to get you an update quicker, but the next few weeks are hectic, so expect equally long waits. Any reviews you can spare would make my day.**


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock threw himself onto the bed, feeling a growl of frustration slip through his lips. John was wrong. There was no hope, and it would be kinder to let him die.

As well as make his final act one to spite Moriarty.

Sometimes he was disgusted with himself.

Mostly he couldn't be bothered to care.

How had the great detective fallen so far? How had one man broken him beyond repair? An act he would once never have considered committing, was now appealing and attractive.

He was temped to silently rage at John, imagining the mirage of comments he could hurl at the man, but his anger could only be directed at Moriarty and his henchmen. Not at somebody who had been kind to him.

And even though he was fuming, he couldn't help feel the warm glow of... well, it was a pleasant feeling, and he got it when he thought about, or listened to, John.

He pushed aside any feelings he may or may not be harbouring, and glanced at his watch. It was almost six o'clock. And Moriarty would probably be paying him a visit. He hadn't seen the man since the visit to London.

He could still see Lestrade's face. Smell the scent of freedom snatched from his very grasp. And worst of all, memories were rising up in clumps, bringing him closer to falling away forever...

Something he had desperately struggled against for all of his imprisonment. And yet however hard he thrashed, everyday brought him a little closer to his tipping point. John had, for a short time, pulled him away, but now... In the face of his failed suicide attempt, he lost all the ground he had gained.

What exactly had brought it on, he wasn't quite sure. Over the past few days, things hadn't been quite so bad. John had distracted him, even when he wasn't there. Going over exactly what he been said, making yet more deductions and letting that fuzzy feeling sweep through his body kept his mind occupied.

He had spent the day after John's offer, spinning it round in his mind. He was sorely tempted to talk... To let out all the desperate and miserable thoughts that had been churning in his mind for seven months.

But he had changed.

Changed from the man he was when he was led, proud with firm steps, into the building.

The trust in people which was delicate and fragile, which people like Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and Molly had carefully built up was shattered into a million pieces. He despised everybody. But more than anything, himself.

And there, below absolutely everything, it lay. Below his friends who thought he was dead. His days spent with Moriarty. Below the attempts on his own life, and for his freedom, it lay, taunting him. Driving him madder than anybody could.

The simple truth.

He knew how dangerous the truth was. How bitter it could be.

How he hated it.

John had given him an offer which he had seriously considered. But the price of that offer, was acknowledging what he couldn't bear to, in exchange for a friendship he knew he couldn't keep.

That was hardly an offer at all, so he had resolved the day before not to accept, even though he'd already turned it down.

But, the next day, the thoughts of that terrible truth haunted him.

His mind spiralled out of control, deathly bored, dangerously upset. Volatile as the most delicate piece of forensic evidence.

So he made up his mind to find out exactly what death involved.

Even now, as Sherlock lay on his stomach, burying his face in the pillow and trying not to breath -the smell was not his own. It smelt of Moriarty, that scent of gum, apple and doom - he regretted his decision.

Not exactly for what might have happened, but for the guilt.

That was what was worse about surviving.

If he were dead, he wouldn't have to think about how pathetic he truly was.

And he wouldn't have to wonder what John Watson thought of him after learning of his weakness.

His stomach dropped.

The only person he had the slightest ounce of respect for, probably had just decided he was useless and worthless.

He clenched his fists.

_Stop it right now._ He growled into his own head.

Things were bad enough without him agonising over his juvenile crush.

With a deep breath he had taken many times in an attempt to bolster his spirits, Sherlock sat up, folded in legs, and closed his eyes.

* * *

Sherlock was yanked back to the present by Moriarty.

He felt the consulting criminal flop onto the bed beside him, and flinched away, hissing slightly.

"Ooh, feisty. My, you really should control that temper." Moriarty said, eyeing him coldly.

Sherlock met the black gaze levelly. Moriarty had finally made an appearance, obviously to find out how badly his plan had effected Sherlock.

The ex-consulting detective silently promised himself not to give in.

"You've been very quiet these past few days. No trouble at all. Anything you want to tell dear old Jim?"

"No."

Moriarty sidled closer, wrapping an arm round Sherlock's gaunt waist. He pursed his lips, forcing himself not to twist away.

Hate and anger were rising in him. His feelings from a little while ago concentrating the emotions.

What kind of man was Moriarty? If he himself was bad, simply because of mistakes, what was Moriarty?

He knew that he wasn't the only case of misery inside this living hell. Prisoners who had somehow offended Moriarty, or delved too deep, were held here. Souls which even he felt sorry for.

He clenched his fingers, closing his eyes. Images flashed through his mind. It was the normal tape.

With one change.

John Watson made an appearance.

With his kind blue eyes, friendly smile, and grey flicked hair.

Sherlock very carefully but firmly pushed all thoughts from his mind, and concentrated on the significant silence. Moriarty was watching him, he could tell. But with what expression he hardly dared guess.

With a effort, he opened his eyes to face the reality of his situation.

Alone.

"Missing people?" asked Moriarty, snide little grin forming. "And I was thinking you didn't care."

"I don't miss any of them. They mean nothing." he spat shakily.

Inside he was screaming, so loudly he barely heard Moriarty's answer.

"You keep telling yourself that, Sherry. Because I wouldn't want to think you were getting attached to anybody."

The significance in his voice was all to easy to spot. With a shudder, Sherlock gave in to the brutal kiss of the consulting criminal, a certain doctor flooding his mind.

* * *

**There! I'm sorry for the wait. This chapter was tricky, and angsty. But I think we'll be seeing improvements in the next chapter.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Hi people... I can image you're all more than slightly angry at me for not updating for several months. I can tell you that a annoying thing called life got in the way, and I was too busy to write. Thanks to two people (many thanks to both of you for being kind enough to spare a moment to buck my ideas up, and drop a kind word) I have written the next chapter. **

**Now, the plot, as far as it goes, is progressing slowly, but it should be picking up soonish. I'm quite enjoying the pace its going at currently, so just me patient and I promise some exciting action soon.**

**Ironic Fate should be updated in the next few weeks, as should the next chapter of this fic.**

**Enjoy!**

John lay in bed, curled under the duvet. For once, Sherlock was not completely filling his thoughts. Moriarty had made an appearance in the unfolding drama of his mind. Though he'd never even seen the man, what he was capable of was becoming clearer.

Sherlock Holmes was a man who obviously had pride, no social abilities, a vast mind, and enormous self esteem. Or at least, he used to. Now, the man that called himself Moriarty had reduced this marvel from that, to suicide attempts.

How had he managed?

It can't have been with bunny slippers and little chicks.

It had been done through a mix of truly awful things. The whip marks which probably still scarred the gaunt back of Sherlock attested to that.

So two things were in John's mind. How had Moriarty managed to get Sherlock this far, and how had Sherlock managed to stay sane...

The obvious answer was that they were both insane.

But the obvious dangers didn't sway John from promising himself to help Sherlock. The opposite in fact. The prospect of death if Moriarty discovered his plans excited him. There was something about the idea that he could truly help Sherlock with little more than kind words made him more committed.

He wriggled onto his other side, cursing the something inside him that yearned for danger. It ate away at his common sense, forcing him to do extremes. Signing up to the army. Agreeing to be a doctor for a mass criminal. And now helping a doomed man just because of a pair of stormy eyes.

Eyes that told such a story he could never get enough of looking at them.

Okay, so he was infatuated. And the man he was infatuated with was engaged to a criminal mastermind. And there was the tiny fact he had just decided that he (the new infatuation) was insane.

John let a long groan of despair and longing pass through his lips.

_I'm seriously messed up._

* * *

The next morning did not shed any joyful light upon his agonies. There was a niggling in his mind, a force he could almost feel biting away at his thoughts.

He replayed the moments of Sherlock attempted suicide in his mind. He poured over the moment where Sherlock's mask had slipped, and showed he was actually a human being.

John scrubbed a hand through his hair. It was nearly noon, and unfortunately for his runaway thoughts, the surgery had been slow. If he were normal, rational, he would probably leave the hell-hole he was in straight away. But he couldn't.

Tapping off the angst, he very purposefully and coldly refused Sherlock to enter his mind once more. Even if that did mean thinking about Harry's new girlfriend, his parents new wallpaper, and various other things of dubious intellectual stimulant. But he was successful in not thinking about Sherlock.

Unless thinking_Don't think about Sherlock, don't think about Sherlock, don't think about Sherlock, _over and over wasn't allowed.

All the same, he hung around an hour after the closing time of surgery, with the air of a puppy which had lost its master, just hoping that maybe Sherlock would turn up.

He didn't.

The next day melded into the one after that. Conversations washed past John, colleagues asked if he was feeling alright, joking about the complete lack of any smart comments for once. John merely shrugged them off, giving a gruff chuckle, and saying he'd had a bad night.

But despite not being fully connected to the world around him while he pined, it was clear something was going in the den. More workers had appeared. Black vans would trundle in and out of the armoury, disappearing into the depths of the building, their mere presence ominous.

That wasn't all. Moran, the gruff and cold assassin was always there, watching with hawks eyes, barking out orders as men carried yet more stuff through the dark doorway which seemed to lead nowhere.

None of the men working were friends of John's, nor close with anybody remotely nice, and they wouldn't say anything about the goings on.

John wasn't whether he wanted to know or not anyway.

* * *

It was four days since he last saw Sherlock. He was quite possibly pining for the madman. Things were not good, to simply put it.

For the first time since being hired by Moriarty, he was beginning to feel very uncomfortable about the people surrounding him. With harshly spat swear words, evil glares, and the atmosphere being constantly on the 'massive punch-up pending' setting, things were getting nasty.

True, these things were helping him pulled his mind away from Sherlock and the... relationship they'd had. Friendship seemed to intimate for the brief acquittance they had set up. But it had been special. It had been different, though it was hard for it to be anything else.

Four days seemed an age ago already, but every moment he'd spent with Sherlock was vivid. His runaway curiosity was working in overdrive to try and think of a reason that would explain everything. He was walking back to his surgery, sticking close to the wall as men with massive bodies, and probably small brains ambled past. His theory was proved by the fact they seemed to be communicating with grunts and growls.

John hastily stepped into his surgery, and shut the door with a snap. He turned to find a man sitting on his examination table.

His heart leapt with hope for in and instant, before falling again.

This man was definitely not Sherlock. He was quite small in comparison, though did have dark hair. It was shorter though, but still long enough to look ruffled. His face was pale and sharp.

But his eyes were the worst. Black, quite large, but with no feeling in them at all. Well, except a maniacal gleam.

"John Watson, I don't believe we've had the pleasure." he purred, sliding of the table and extending a hand with a sneer.

John realised that declining would be a big mistake, and shook the hand, shuddering at how cold it was.

"I know who you are, but perhaps you don't know who I am." he said, a frankly frightening titter accompanying the words, as if it were the funniest thing to say of the year.

"No." John said shortly.

He wanted this man to get out as quickly as possible.

The grin on that evil face widened, pointed teeth showing.

"I'm Jim. Jim Moriarty. You've had the delight of meeting my fiancé, I believe." he said, smile dripping of his face as he eyed John coldly.

John took a step back, restudying the face.

This was the man who had destroyed Sherlock.

The man that had hired assassins, and effectively killed uncountable numbers of people.

The man who even tortured them.

And he was standing in John's surgery, hands in pockets, a spark of hatred in his eyes.

_God help me._

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed that, though I doubt it was worth the wait! Next chapter, Sherlock does some deducing, and reveals a little more of his past... Reviews absolutely _will_ help a quicker update, so spare a second to drop a line.**

**Thanks all!**


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock crept soundless down the corridor, the only sound the dim hum of machinery. He hadn't lost any of his silent tread since being imprisoned. That wolf-like, elegant prowl still hung about him as he slipped from shadow to shadow, his breath coming softly through parted lips.

There was the stirrings of a thrill in his chest. Nothing compared to the old, pulsing excitement, but more than he'd felt for a long time.

Moriarty was up to something.

And he wanted to find out exactly what.

And if that resulted in some kind of punishment from the criminal mastermind, then that was a small price to pay in exchange for knowledge.

And it helped take his mind of John. The man that had been infuriating him, puzzling him, for days. Since his abortive suicide attempt.

He had been tempted to slink back down to the surgery, and ask forgiveness. But his pride harshly told him to stop pining, so, here he was, sneaking down a dark corridor.

Moriarty had left him an hour earlier, when he had finished his daily taunting session. Sherlock hadn't even given a thought to what he was off to do.

Terrorising some prisoner, no doubt.

Sherlock had been to the cells twice in the last seven months. Once when he was an occupant himself, and then again, to see the horrors there.

What he had seen stopped his self pity for several weeks.

But, back to the present, which was far more exciting than lingering on the past. Sherlock licked his lips, stepping forward six more paces, before peering round a corner. The corridor he had been following opened out into a large, underground room. There were men buzzing around like wasps, erecting some kind of stage, lining up plush chairs.

Sherlock bit back a small gasp as his whirring brain slotted everything into place.

A meeting. Moriarty was organising some kind of meeting with other criminals.

Sherlock almost twitched his lips in a smile, eager interest and puzzling thoughts rising up inside him.

Why had Moriarty decided to bring all the most dangerous men in the together?

That was a question only the man himself could answer. But it certainly explained the activity. Criminals disliked any kind of hardship. Well, the masterminds did, anyway.

No doubt Moriarty had some kind of motive which involved his 'consulting criminal' aspect. But there was definitely more. This move was risky for Moriarty. They were still in Britain, and bringing murderers, terrorists and gang leaders, most of whom were notorious, was a very risky move.

Sherlock withdrew his head quickly as somebody called out, though whether it was because they spotted him or not, he wasn't sure. A little grimace of amusement touched his cold face. The chances of this running to plan were minuscule.

Especially if there was some kind of... disturbance.

A disturbance caused by an ex-consulting detective.

Grimace turning to smirk, he crept away, sparks igniting his mind into a fully functioning whirlwind of thoughts, hopes, grudges and plans.

* * *

That very evening, he lay on his back staring blankly up at the ceiling. He hadn't dared stay around to snoop more, in case of discovery. That would rather ruin his high hopes.

Everything slotted perfectly into place now. Moriarty's renewed attempts to push him under the surface included. And the excitement of what was effectively a case was bringing emotions to the surface.

He was on fire.

But it was imperative that Moriarty did not discover that the burning hate he had been harbouring for oh-so long, had risen to the surface like a frothing lava monster. If his fiancé did discover, then the fun would be ruined.

But there was still several niggles. Ones he would work very hard to straighten out.

He was in a semi unconscious state when the door was pushed open without any preamble, and the man he had his thoughts set on toppling entered the room.

Sherlock scrambled into a sitting position, pressing himself to the wall before he could stop himself.

Well, at least it lived up to his 'part'.

But it was like a pot of boiling water had been poured away. Everything drained away, just leaving a vague fear, a haughty glare, and the last vestiges of a plan that would derail Moriarty's plan. He desperately felt around for the ideas, but they refused to come.

"So glad you're alert, darling." Moriarty drawled, draping himself on the bed like a malevolent kitten.

Sherlock pulled his lips up in a sneer, more like a corner dog than anything else.

_The animal associations are not helping. _He berated himself quietly.

The voice inside his mind, the very same that told him the answer to crimes, and comforted him in times of turmoil, had dropped down to a whisper.

Moriarty gave a coy smile, his eyes remaining as cold and as hard as ever.

"I was having a little chit-chat with a friend of yours, dearest." Moriarty said, sliding forward, intently focused on Sherlock.

He knew of a lot of people who would kill to gain the attention of James Moriarty. He would kill to push it away from him.

"Really." he droned, no interest in the statement.

Or at least, not on the surface.

"Yes, though I'd say this was rather more of a new one, Sherry." Moriarty said craftily.

Dread pooled in the pit of Sherlock's stomach, heavy and painful. He only just managed to stop his breath jerking out. Moriarty could only mean one person.

Moriarty lounged, twiddling his thumbs, eyeing Sherlock smugly.

The silence stretched on several more seconds, but Sherlock refused to speak.

"Well... he wasn't particularly interesting. I don't know why you find him so bewitching," Moriarty smirked. "But he did have a couple of enlightening things to say."

Moriarty took Sherlock's wrist, fingers spidering briefly over Sherlock's pulse, before making their way up his arm, over his shoulder, before closing round his neck.

Sherlock didn't even blink, daring Moriarty with his liquid-silver eyes to do something. He hoped to feel fingers close round his neck, but they didn't, moving up to brush Sherlock's lips, and then into his hair.

To anybody watching, the actions were affectionate. To Sherlock, they set alight a whole wave of deductions.

This was Moriarty trying to subdue him, proving that the man wanted him to be down-trodden for this event.

After a few moments, Moriarty dropped his gaze, roughly removing his hands from Sherlock's tangled hair. Sherlock hardly dared breath, waiting for some kind of killer strike.

Moriarty got up and left without a word.

Sherlock sunk onto the bed, scrunching his eyes closed, begging somebody, anybody, to release him from this nightmare.

The sharp fear that something bad had happened to John was keenly attacking him, pulling a defeated groan from his lips.

From thoughts of rebellion, he had sunken to blind prayers, and shivering fears.

* * *

**There we are. I hope that was a suitably quick update! Thank you so much everybody wh reviewed, they have really got me motivated again, so keep 'em coming!**


	11. Chapter 11

John stayed perfectly still, surveying Moriarty with calm eyes. He tried not to let any thought into his head, knowing that Moriarty would read it as clearly as if somebody had written it on his face in black marker pen.

But he knew the trickling, oozing fear that was running into the pit of his stomach was impossible to hide.

"What do you want?" he asked as politely as possible.

This was his employer. And had the ability to crush him with a single word. He was also slightly aware of the fact that Sherlock could be dragged into this with a twitch of Moriarty's fingers, and the least thing John wanted to be responsible for was more harm to the man.

"I just wanted to chit-chat. Man to man. Tell me, Johnny, have you ever stolen a master criminal's fiancé?"

Searching as quickly as he could for a trick question, John let the word finally drop from his mouth.

"No."

"Well you might be soon. I'm afraid Sherry is growing a little fond of you, or at least, what you offer." Moriarty grinned again. "And I promise you it's got nothing to do with how handsome you may or may not be."

"What do you mean?" John asked cautiously.

"Don't delude yourself into thinking he's actually interested. He just sees you as a ticket out of here, and once he realises just how useless you actually are, you will be dropped without a second thought. Trust me."

Trusting Moriarty was not something John was planning to do, but he could see perhaps a peppering of truth in the words. Quite a lot of truth actually.

He didn't let a frown knit his eyebrows, but it was a close thing.

"Just thought I'd tell you, Sherlock doesn't care for anybody, not even his own brother. So don't even think he might get close to a piece of riff raff like you."

Moriarty glared at him for a second, black eyes keeping him silent, then he smiled.

"So, keep that in your head when he makes any kind of advance."

John turned on the spot to follow Moriarty with his eyes out the door. When it clicked shut, he breathed a heavy breath, chewing his lips and leaning against the wall

* * *

The next day, John didn't think about Sherlock. There was no point pondering Moriarty's spiteful words. He believed them, yes, but a tiny voice in his head said that Sherlock's fear and loneliness had been completely real.

There was more activity now, a lot more. The main doors were almost permanently open, black limos sliding like panthers into the building. They disappeared before their occupants got out, blacked-out windows hiding them from view. John tried not to let it worry him, but something was just so wrong.

He retired for bed early, wanted to get away from it all.

And the question that had been on his mind since yesterday surfaced in the face of silent contemplation.

_Will Sherlock actually make a move?_

John couldn't honestly say he would be upset if the brilliant, stunningly beautiful man did. But his intentions would. If Sherlock just wanted to escape, he surely wouldn't feel the need to seduce John? Maybe he would, who knew how lunatics/genii thought.

But if Sherlock would cast him aside as soon as he got a breath of fresh air, then he didn't want anything romantic to do with the man.

John sighed, staring at where he liked to imagine a window once might have been. It had been blocked up now, meaning only artificial light lit the room, but it was the patch of wall he stared at in times of crisis.

Then there was a soft, furtive knock on his door. John's heart leapt, before he firmly pushed the fluttering in his chest down again. That didn't stop him from rushing to open the door to who he knew would be standing there.

* * *

Once Sherlock was seated on the bed, ridiculously long legs crossed, grey eyes coolly looking round, as if scanning for something, John stopped the pleasantries - which weren't really appropriate when you were in the company of somebody you knew had been beaten by his fiancé - and asked the real question.

"Why are you here?" he asked, watching Sherlock as intently as he dared.

The emotionless gaze landed on him immediately, and he almost blushed as his soul was examined by the two grey lasers.

"Something's going on. I want to find out what. I need your help." Sherlock said stonily.

"Right..."

Silence for about six seconds.

"How can I help?"

Sherlock stretched a fake smile over his face. But at least they both knew it was fake.

"Watch my back, punch anybody that gets in the way, listen to my plans." he said, still using the carefully monotone voice.

"Punching people?"

"You are a soldier. We haven't much time, so one more question, then we leave."

John didn't point out he hadn't actually agreed to come.

"Will it be dangerous?" he asked.

The tiniest sliver of Sherlock's mouth twitched.

"Yes.

"Let's go then."

* * *

They padded silently down corridor after corridor, until John gave up trying too keep track of how many lefts and how many rights they had taken.

After about half fifteen minutes, John posed another question.

"Do you have a brother?"

Moriarty's words were still branded into his mind, and he couldn't help but try to find out if there were any truth in them.

"Why?" asked Sherlock sharply, not breaking pace.

"Just wondered if you had any siblings." John said casually.

Sherlock glanced keenly round at him, frowning.

"Yes. I did." he said emotionlessly, before continuing his brisk walk.

Soon Sherlock came to an abrupt halt, glancing around without any curiosity. John also gave the singularly uninteresting piece of grey corridor a brief once over, and found nothing to distinguish it from the rest.

"Er, are we lost"? he asked.

Sherlock didn't look at him as he answered.

"No. I know these tunnel's better than anybody. But I have reached a problem in my theory."

John hesitated.

"Which is?" he asked cautiously.

"Moriarty is holding a criminal convention. Drug lords, masterminds, anybody who's made a name for themselves in the criminal world, is coming. I am only unsure of when they are arriving, and for what exact purpose. These things I hoped to find out, but we've almost gone over the whole building." Sherlock said these with an impossible amount of speed, keeping John from interrupting with a 'oh my god'.

Sherlock drew a deep breath, but did not continue.

"What if Moriarty built a new area?" asked John after a moment. "There's been a lot of-"

Sherlock spun to face him, face almost lighting up. Not quite though.

"Perfect!"

And before John could even blink, their lips touched for the briefest second. Another moment later, Sherlock was gone, spinning away, only the tingling on John's lips keeping him from thinking he'd imagined it.

"Come on, this way." Sherlock said, long legs striding off down the corridor.

After a moment's hesitation, finger still running across his mouth, John followed.

* * *

**Sorry for how hugely long this took. I hope there was enough progress in this chapter to keep you all happy. Reviews and comments are always hugely appreciated. Next chapter, a week or so.**


	12. Chapter 12

Yes, it had been a mistake. potentially the biggest of his life, but Sherlock couldn't help but feel a tingling excitement in his chest as his lips met John Watson's.

He pulled away a millisecond after, but the shock in John's eyes was impossible to miss. Perhaps some slower examples of humanity wouldn't notice, but John was above average on the intelligence ratio.

Sherlock turned away to hide his face, giving John an opportunity to follow him if he wished in the form of some words. His mind was reeling, deductions and thoughts swirling round his head.

After a second, he heard the doctor's footsteps behind him, and felt a tiny smirk of satisfaction spring onto his lips, unbidden.

The mistake was stupid, weak and foolish, but maybe it could be twisted to his advantage.

Possibilities stretched out in a long paved road.

Some of them were rose tinged, and other dripping in blood and misery.

Sherlock ripped his mind from a scenario which ended in a rather painful death, to his current mission. Foiling Moriarty's plans, at whatever the cost.

Even though perhaps with John's appearance, things were not as grim as they were before, Sherlock still felt a recklessness running through his veins.

He wanted to get his own back on Moriarty. For eight months the criminal mastermind had had it easy, but now his mind was alert, and his thoughts were utterly fixed on at least being as troublesome as possible.

Well, perhaps not utterly. There was the small matter of the growing emotions in his heart for John.

He knew it was probably the fact he was grateful for some kindness after months of rough treatment, but that didn't stop his heart fluttering at the thought of that kiss.

John hadn't shoved him off. Had he been too surprised to, or had he...

Sherlock quickly killed that thought. He could not become emotionally attached to anybody, let alone in this situation. Moriarty wouldn't hesitate to use anything against Sherlock. Already if harm was threatened against John, Sherlock knew it would be an effort to shrug his shoulders with a rolling of his eyes and turn away.

His heart had thawed, just at the wrong moment.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder quickly, meeting John's eyes for the briefest of seconds.

They were a very handsome shade of blue.

_Focus! _He snapped at himself, tearing his gaze away.

He knew it was a loosing battle. That at some point, he would slip up, as he already had. And then... Then his affections would be accepted, with potentially disastrous consequences, or turned down, and he could build his barriers up again, and find away out of the hell hole he was trapped in.

There was another selfish side to his yearning however.

John was a way out of this place. John could get out. He could contact Mycroft, and then... Then Moriarty's downfall would be Sherlock's victory.

For a moment he considered stopping his dangerous plan of simply annoying Moriarty, and concentrating on using John to get out.

But his hatred of Moriarty had reached a peak, and he desperately wanted to prove to Moriarty he was not beaten, or broken. And that game, he and Moriarty played like two snakes moving in a deadly dance, was back on. And just as before, he couldn't resist playing his turn.

And he knew secretly, that this throw could only end badly, but he couldn't stop. He was drawn to and repulsed from Moriarty.

He took several turns left and right, striding, as quickly as his long legs could go.

"Slow down would you." John called from behind him.

Sherlock paused a second, refusing to look round.

He soon set off again at the same strident pace.

It wasn't long before they reached the room he had seen before. There were still men working, but Sherlock was pleased to note there wasn't as many as the last time he had spied on the area.

With a deep breath through his nose, he stepped out from the cover of the corner, ignoring John's hissed warning.

He was slightly surprised to hear John's steps behind him a moment later. Surprised, but strangely gratified.

The workmen didn't so much as glance at them, no doubt eager to finish their work, and get out of the death trap.

Soon they were at the other side of the room, and Sherlock quietly opened the door, slipping inside.

A flustered looking John Watson followed. Inside was a lusciously carpeted corridor, completely at odds with the barren hall they had just walked through. He was about to try the handle of the nearest door when John grabbed his wrist with a firm hand.

He felt electricity tingle for a moment, reluctantly meeting John's eyes.

"I've seen people arriving... In limos. If you think this is a criminal convention or whatever, then I think they're already here." John whispered.

Sherlock nodded slowly, and though tempted to rip his arm from John's grip, the thoughts of seduction and eventual escape kept him from doing so, instead he waited for John to realise. When he did, he released the bony and china like wrist with an endearing blush.

He knew at that moment that their attraction was mutual, and felt a coil of excitement twist in his stomach. He turned away, but not with any hostility, and crept down the passage, the carpet softening his footfalls.

He stooped to examine doorknob and doorknob, waiting for a handle that would tell him what he wanted to know.

The thrill of deducing was like fire coursing through his body, making every hair tingle. How he missed it. The examination, the realisation and then the chase of detective work. He stared glassy eyed at a door a little too long as he remembered case after case where he had only survived by the skin of his teeth.

"Sherlock?" John whispered.

He turned, cocking his head with a faint smile.

"You okay?"

"Yes, perfectly." Sherlock mouthed back, continuing his search along the corridor.

There was obviously a huge amount of people already here. Finger prints smudged the handles, as well as the faint scuff marks on the bottom's of the doors, where people had toed it open.

Finally, he came to one which showed none of these signs. An unoccupied one.

He beckoned John over, and without daring to breath, turned the handle.

The door slowly swung open.

"Hello, Sherry. Come to join me?"

* * *

**Sorry for another long wait. And that this chapter was essentially boring. Though as the last sentence suggests, it is about to get more interesting, have faith. Reviews are good (=**


	13. Chapter 13

John sat still in his room, refusing to move a muscle. He was almost one hundred percent sure that he was being watched, via cameras, and so refused to give the people spying on him any satisfaction. In his mind, cogs were turning faster than they had in an awfully long time.

It had all been over very quickly. Sherlock had opened the door, and things had spiralled out of control...

_"Hello, Sherry. Come to join me?"_

_Sherlock had leapt back like a scalded cat, his posture immediately becoming stiff and emotionless._

_"Did you really think I'd just let you waltz around, doing what you wanted, and ruining my plans in the process?" Moriarty drawled, stepping slowly over to an apparently paralysed Sherlock._

_John watched as two men stepped out from behind Moriarty, looking equally dumb and gangster-like. They grabbed Sherlock by his spindly arms, remaining still as he struggled for a few seconds._

_"Darling, how many times do I have to tell you? Do not mess with daddy's business. Consider this a last warning." Moriarty hissed, delivering a slap to the gaunt and pale face._

_Sherlock dropped his head, not meekly, but in a way that seemed to mean something to Moriarty._

_"Game. Over." he sneered, gesturing with his hand._

_The thugs hauled Sherlock past John, and down the corridor. He was too stunned to react, though he cursed himself for it later._

_The detective look small and vulnerable, refusing to look up as he was pushed and jostled onwards. John felt a flicker of hurt that Sherlock hadn't bothered to look round and discover his fate._

_Talking about which..._

_"Now Johnny boy, what ever shall I do with you?"_

_John didn't answer, watching Moriarty warily. He seemed even more threatening than before._

_The evil genius stepped forward, cocking his head in a questioning way._

_"You know, I like you." Moriarty said, coming slowly closer, snide smile on his tight lips._

_John had the feeling that wasn't a good thing._

_"A shame you've attached yourself to Sherlock Holmes." he said idly, examining his hand._

_"I- I don't know what you're talking about." John hastily said._

_Moriarty dropped his hand, stepping forward so their faces were half an inch away. John forced himself not to pull away._

_"I think you do." he breathed._

_Before John could even move, cold lips pressed against his for a second, before leaving._

_He stumbled back, wiping his lips hastily._

_"Oh dear, what'll little Johnny do," Moriarty crowed in a sing song voice. "I think you know what I'm talking about. Now I warn you once more, before I decide just to kill you, stay away from my fiancé. You're mildly interesting, Johnny-boy, but not that interesting."_

John would have groaned if he hadn't been maintaining a steady silence. If Moriarty knew about the... kiss, then he would be watching him now.

_Two kisses from masterminds in as many hours. Not bad going. _John thought morosely.

He certainly knew which kiss he had preferred.

But Moriarty's 'final' warning was ringing in his ears, and the tiny sliver of self preservation he had left was now waking up, and telling him to stop it right now.

Sherlock was dangerous. Moriarty was more so. Together, any interaction with them was fatal.

John sighed, allowing a quick drooping of the shoulders. He slowly stood up, stretched his suddenly aching leg, and then crawled to the bedside, curling down without bothering to take his clothes off. The idea of undressing in front of camera's make his skin crawl.

But sleep didn't come easy.

He replayed the moment where Sherlock appeared to break in his mind a hundred times. He re-watched Moriarty giving him a final warning. And with painstaking care, he reconstructed the moment in which Sherlock's lips met his.

Silly as it was, he couldn't get that moment out of his head. Remembering Sherlock's amazing gift for 'deducing' he suddenly wished he had it. He just couldn't work out how the man's mind worked.

The hours dragged on, dark and miserable. However much he tossed and turned, John couldn't get to sleep. He felt more alive than he had in a horribly long time. Since he was a army doctor if Afghanistan.

Finally, he rolled out of bed with a muttered curse. John stalked across to the shower room, pausing to grab a sheath of papers on the way, and closed the door. He pushed the shower on, and watched the water splatter against the tiles.

With another button push, the water was tumbling out at almost double the rate, smacking down in roar. John smiled as he turned the heater down to cold.

_Perfect_

Five minutes later, he had slipped out of the room, under the joint blanket of the shower's noise, and the blackness in his room, and was tiptoeing down the corridor.

It was dark. Evidently Moriarty didn't bother with the modern invention called electricity where he could help it. Every small stumbled step and stuttering breath seemed too loud, and several times John stopped short, preparing to turn tail and flee back to his room.

He had believed everything Moriarty had told him, especially the fact he was on his last chance.

Finally, and it was a massively humongous finally, he reached the lift.

With a perfectly steady hand, he jabbed the button which called for the lift, wincing as it whirred nosily, light's flickering on the control screen and causing spots to float before his vision before he blinked them away.

With a hissing and a merry ding which seemed like the clanging of a hundred Big Ben's, the lift opened its doors to him.

Slowly, he stepped inside, praying his luck wouldn't run out as he jabbed the next key.

With agonising lack of speed, the lift grated upwards, finally stopping with more creaking and groaning. He had never noticed it was so loud before...

He quickly stepped out, slinking into the shadows. A good thing too, as several moment's later, voices carried on the silent air from behind the corner. John quickly scurried to a tiny alcove a door offered, and waited, pressing his body as closely as he could to the metal frame

"-dawdling. If we're late, we'll be skinned." a voice said, no whispering softening the sudden burst of sound.

"Yeah yeah." grumbled a second.

Two spots of light bobbed slowly closer, the sounds of two pairs of feet speeding up, and growing louder.

Five, four, three, two... one.

The guards passed, not even bothering to look up from the floor as they plodded past.

John sighed, waited for the lift to jangle away, and quickly set off down the corridor. He was wishing he had a torch now, peering in the gloom at the names on the doors.

'J. Tawnry' read one, with a small line of text too small for the dim light to let John read.

He squinted at each name, waiting for the one he wanted.

'S. Holmes'

He paused a moment, scanning the letters, trying to make out what Moriarty had written below. It was no good in the light though, and after a moment, John turned his attention to the lock.

It was basic at the best, and simple to pick at worst.

John drew out the paper clip he had taken from the pile of papers he'd grabbed on his way to the 'shower' and bent it out of its usual form. He softly pushed it into the lock, and commenced turning.

It was a skill he hadn't learnt while training in the army, but from his grandfather, who had spend many hours teaching him how to open the locked biscuit cupboard.

Within five minutes, the lock clicked, and John carefully pocketed the clip. Slowly, he placed a hand on the knob, and pushed it open.

He quickly stepped in, shutting the door behind him. Then he turned, staring into the gloom. There was not a sound to be heard. John blinked several times trying to make out any form in the pitch and inky dark.

The light's buzzed on in a flare of sudden colour and blinding white light. It took several seconds to clear the spots, and once he did, he was greeted with the sight of Sherlock Holmes sitting cross legged on a simple bed, watching him with cold and emotionless grey eyes, surprisea vaguely outlined in the frown lines on his forehead.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock spent the first hour of his imprisonment pacing. The second hour shouting at the cameras and bloody bugs that were planted everywhere. And the third hour sitting calmly, contemplating a suicide attempt to force Moriarty to show his hand.

He was completely and utterly bored, and at that very moment all he wanted to do was rip Moriarty in half, and then do it again.

Not exactly possible, as his arch enemy cross fiancé was refusing to show his _slimly, odious, _and_ detestable _face.

In that hour of pacing, he had thought of every possible reason for Moriarty bringing criminals together. He had used John in every possible way to help him to escape. He had figured out the most painful way to destroy Moriarty and his minions, one with the help of Mycroft, and the other without. And he had very studiously ignored the emotional feelings he was growing.

A lot of his plans were relying on either Moriarty or John making an appearance, and as Moriarty would almost certainly have warned John he was about to loose his life, that particular option one was out the window, and sunk in the sea.

Moriarty also refused to appear, despite hour two being full of jibes, promises, pleas and hate filled accusations.

Sherlock knew as he screamed for his release, and howled for Moriarty's blood what was happening.

He was loosing his mind.

The slender threads of sanity which had kept him anchored to the ground were being ripped one by one, brining him to the level of an idiot, albeit an idiot with some slightly eccentric ideas.

And the sudden and painful news that he was going crazy just served as another layer of wistful wishes, and plotted revenges.

By hour three he had managed to pull himself out of the never ending circle, and calmed down enough to just sit and think.

Well actually, Sherlock didn't think. He didn't want to. He just sat, waiting.

It wasn't long afterwards that a knock at the door sounded, and stonily silent minion entered, leaving a tray of food on the floor, before leaving.

The key's locking the door echoed loudly.

Sherlock reluctantly dragged himself over to examine the sustenance he had been granted.

Alphabet soup, toast soldiers and a hunk of cheese.

Sherlock left all of it, and slouched back to his bed.

Time passed.

He decoded the message Moriarty had left the alphabet soup -_Patience Dearest, you must learn to behave._

He nibbled on a piece of toast.

He cut the wires of all the camera's with the slightly blunt cheese knife he'd been given, and stamped on the bugs until they were just pieces of broken technology under his feet.

Then he lay down and waited.

Second after second dragged by. Painfully slow.

He was just falling into a fitful doze, full of the usual nightmares deceit, hate and pain featuring strongly in them, when there was a scuffling outside.

He immediately sat up, hand landing on the light switch, waiting to turn them on.

The noise continued, but nothing happened. Sherlock's arm grew heavy with the effort of holding it up for so long. And then, when he was about to put it down to his newly acquired status of insanity, the door opened.

He waited five seconds, then switched the lights on, opening his eyes after the initial glare.

He was met with a shock when his eyes fell upon a John Watson.

Once John had recovered from the sudden light, his gaze met Sherlock's, and they surveyed each other for a few long, tense seconds.

"Are there any cam-" John began

"No. I dismantled them." Sherlock said quickly, letting his hand drop from the light switch.

He remained silent a John slowly approached, apparently unsure what to say.

"Why are you here?" he demanded as John shuffled from one foot to another.

"I- I want to know if I can help you." John said slowly.

"I don't need help." Sherlock snapped, the word slipping out, as they had so many times in the past.

John scowled, stepping over cautiously, as if he were approaching an animal.

"Yes, you do Sherlock. You have to get out of here." John said.

Sherlock paused. Yes, he wanted desperately to get out of this place. But would he accept an offer like that? His pride, the very same one which had ignored such offers from Mycroft and Lestrade, was suspicious.

He read a million things in John's face, but he still couldn't decide whether he was trustworthy.

"Why? Why should I trust you?" he blurted.

John stepped closer, leaning down so their eyes were within centimetres.

"You have no choice." he said softly.

He hesitated a second, then pressed his lips to Sherlock's in a gentle kiss. It took all of his willpower for Sherlock not to pull away at the sudden invasion. Instead, he stiffened, allowing John's lips to caress his in a loving kiss, so unlike anything he had ever received before. He let John kiss him for what seemed like a blissful eternity, minutely returning the pressure so John wouldn't feel rejected.

However tempted he was to be kissed like this forever, Sherlock pulled away, letting the full power of his stare match John's blue eyed gaze.

After several minutes at staring into John's worried, kind and beautiful eyes, he relented.

"You're right. I... I need you." he said.

John sat down carefully beside him on the bed, as if he were breakable, and continued to watch him closely.

"What do we do then?"

Sherlock let a sharp, an completely fake crack his lips.

"I know exactly what we're going to do."

* * *

**Sorry for delays. I've started nanowrimo, a 'write 50k of words in a month' event, and writing fanfiction has become second priority. That's partly why this chapter is so short, but also I want to move the plot along, and I can't from Sherlock POV.**

**Happy reading, and reviews are love.**


	15. Chapter 15

John stood outside a large, very ornate building, gazing up at the fine brickwork and pillars which held the place. It was the afternoon after his 'talk' with Sherlock, and now he was helping the man escape. In his hand was a black, square bag.

Moriarty had given him death threats, and he had completely ignored them. Typical.

He slowly walked up the steps, and with shaking fingers, rapped on the door with a gold plated lion's head. everything about the place screamed rich, famous and used to luxury.

He only had the faintest idea of who he was supposed to be seeing, and from the little Sherlock had told him, he hadn't imagined this. Not at all.

The door opened sharply, a prim looking women pocketing a blackberry and questioning him with liquid eyes. There was a lot of steel on those eyes.

John bit his lip and drew a breath.

"Um... I'm here to see mister Mycroft Holmes?" he said slowly, clasping the briefcase tightly.

That case was Sherlock's lifeline.

"Do you have an appointment?" drawled the woman, looking the point of shutting the door in his face.

"No, but er, it's very important." John said hastily.

"Well I'm sorry, but you'll have to arrange a meeting through the usual channels." the woman said, brining out her blackberry and making to close the door.

"Please! No, it's important. It's about Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." he said, putting his foot against the door.

The woman, who coincidently was rather pretty, briefly looked up from her phone, surprise on her face.

"Mr. Holmes the younger has been dead nearly eight months now. If you'll excuse me."

The door swung shut with a dull clunk, leaving John on the steps.

Everything seemed suddenly clearer. All of what Sherlock had hidden was in the open.

_Did he pretend to die? Or did he have no choice?_ John wondered.

The terrible thought that maybe... maybe the enigmatic man he'd met wasn't Sherlock Holmes briefly crossed his mind, but he pushed it away very quickly. Sherlock was no act.

With new determination, he rapped on the door.

He had to talk to this brother of Sherlock's, the faster the better.

A few minutes later, the door opened again, the same lady staring at him with the first emotion she'd shown displaying on her face.

"I've already told you, Mr. Holmes had no interest in seeing you." she snapped.

"I think he should decide that. Tell him I have some very important information about Sherlock, it's vital he knows."

The woman tapped at her phone for a moment.

"Very well." she said, slamming the door in his face yet again.

John let out a shaky sigh, leaning against a pillar. If this didn't work, he would simply have to wait for Mycroft to leave his posh house, and ambush him on the way.

He had a feeling, the kind of instinct that had saved his life several times on the battlefield, that Sherlock didn't have long left to live.

And he was committed to doing all he could to save the amazing young man.

* * *

Ten long and painful minutes later, the woman opened the door again.

"Mr. Holmes will see you." she said, stepping aside to allow him in.

John followed her up a flight of richly carpeted stairs, and along hallways with exquisite patterns adorning the walls. But for all of the splendour and beauty, the place was empty of emotion. There were not photographs. Nothing was out of place. It was like a stately home museum, but apparently somebody did live here.

All too soon, the woman was knocking at a oak door with a golden handle.

A voice drifted from inside calling them in, and John swallowed down his nerves and stepped inside.

The room was light, a large window allowing sunlight to seep in. The floor was carpeted, the walls furnished with tapestry's and ornately framed pictures of beauty spots. In the middle of room there was a desk, and behind the desk a man.

He looked haggard, hair thinning and greying, though he looked no older than forty. There was a slight paunch in his face. He was clothed in a very, very expensive looking suit.

Jon stared at him for a moment, wondering if he'd got the right Mycroft Holmes.

Still, there couldn't be all that many.

"Mr. Holmes?" he asked, stepping forward.

"Yes." Mycroft said, giving him a weary and forced smile.

"I'm here about your brother, Sherlock." he said, taking the seat Mycroft indicated.

"Oh yes?" Mycroft said, no surprise in his voice, but a lot of suspicion.

"Yes." John said, attempting to work how to broach the news that his brother was actually alive to Mycroft.

"Well, you'd better tell me your name and get on with it." Mycroft said with a small sigh.

"John Watson."

Mycroft nodded, then raised his eyebrows.

"I am a busy man, John Watson, please make your point."

John drew a deep breath.

"Your brother, Sherlock, is not dead." he said.

Mycroft stared at him for a moment. Then gave a dry and mirthless bark of laughter.

"I've heard many accusations made against my brother. That he was fraud, freak and psychopath, but never that he was a vampire."

John frowned.

"No. I'm telling you he never died." he said.

Mycroft leaned forward.

"Sherlock Holmes jumped off the top of a building eight months ago. Now Mr. Watson, I believe it is time you were leaving."

"No! I can prove it." John said quickly.

Mycroft froze.

"Can you really?" he said, icy demeanour returning in a flash.

"Yes."

John brought the laptop case up onto the desk, and unzipped it, bringing out his laptop. He pressed the power button, and they waited in silence while it hummed into life.

Once it was booted, he opened a video file, and glanced at Mycroft.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

Mycroft nodded minutely, his eyes glued on the screen.

John pressed the play button. For a moment the screen was dark, then it crackled into life, displaying the cell Sherlock was trapped in, and Sherlock himself, peering at the webcam. He nodded to himself and drew back until his whole head was in the screen.

There was the faintest smirk of his face, as his bright grey eyes flickered around, almost as if he were examining the room they were now in.

"Hello my dear brother. I bet you didn't expect to see me again." he said, and at that moment, for the first time, his eyes were alive.

* * *

**Sorry for the wait, again. I've been busy with Merlin FanFiction, and then my netbook crashed. The next chapter will be from John's POV again, and we'll find out more about what happened... I hope.**


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